


Leicester Square

by sam_erotica



Category: Star Wars - All Media Types
Genre: M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2013-10-07
Updated: 2013-10-07
Packaged: 2017-12-28 17:12:51
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,479
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/994489
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/sam_erotica/pseuds/sam_erotica
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>“Turn over,” he says, in a voice that says he knows he won’t be questioned. And you do, eagerly.  He won’t be questioned.</p><p>This work originally written in 2005.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Leicester Square

You hadn’t planned on such a public display. In that dark suit he almost looked like someone else, like a _movie star_. But you were drawn towards him the way you always are, one step at a time, five fingers on his arm. Your eyes took in the way the gray wool bunched on his left shoulder, and the way his hair seemed to fight with his collar. As he turned, you felt for one brief and burning moment that he didn’t recognize you. Then he smiled, looked you up and down with that wide-open smile of his, and stepped towards you.

You wondered if you would actually do it, and if he would let you. _For fuck’s sake, Ewan_ , you chided yourself and leaned into him, your arm around his shoulder, _it’s just a little kiss on the cheek_. A simple kiss between friends, right? Of course he would let you.

And as it turned out, he did let you. He let you, and not only that, the kid actually raised his lips to meet yours, as if you had _fucking dared_ him. Your pulse pounded in your ears. His lips dared you in return.

You didn't think. Cheek to cheek, you could feel his face erupt into a smile that surely covered every inch of him. With the weight of his chin on your shoulder and the rush of his breath on your neck you just didn’t think, letting your small plastic keycard fall effortlessly from your fingers into his pocket.

* * * * * * * * * *

The movie itself, “all put together” as Natalie had been saying, was extraordinary. You watched it like one of your own fans, greedy for the next turn in the plot, almost forgetting that you had anything to do with it. When the lovers Anakin and Padmé appeared onscreen, you felt a pang of jealousy for the beautiful bride, until the memory of Hayden’s lips on yours returned to your consciousness and you allowed yourself a small, secret smile in the darkness of the theater.

After, at the party, you tried to watch Hayden without watching  _only_ Hayden. You smiled at cameras, chatted with friends, watching him for any sign that he had casually reached into his pocket and discovered your key resting there. There was no sign. He shot you a fleeting glance across the room as he shook hands with some reporter, another one later as he laughed with Christopher. The same glance you have seen a hundred times. You ordered another drink.

Around midnight you realized that he was gone. Now, you patiently finish your drink as if it were not your one-too-many, silently cursing your own stupidity one last time before admitting to the hotel night staff that you have lost your key.

Upstairs, the door shuts behind you with a soft thud, and you are cradled by the darkness. Thick silence washes over you in waves as you kick off your shoes and fall face-first into the bedspread.

“You’re kind of a dick, you know that?”

Hayden’s voice, from the chair by the window. He looks cramped in the chair, as if he’s been sleeping in it, his suit jacket thrown over the front of him like an airplane blanket. The clock says 2:23 am.

“I mean, you _were_ asking me up here, weren’t you?”

He leans forward, letting the jacket fall to a lump on the floor. You look at him, amazed. He never let on. The kid’s a much better actor than you ever believed.

“Weren’t you?” Hayden’s face is hidden by shadow, but the annoyance in his voice is unmistakable. You heave yourself onto your knees and forearms, then sit back onto your heels, heavy breath and heartbeat loud in your ears. There’s a magazine on the floor, open to the article ‘Eternal Sunscreen of the Spotless Bod.’ He’s still waiting.

“Yes,” you hear yourself say thickly through the fog, “I was.”

“Then, what the fuck, Ewan?” He flops back into the chair, one hand massaging his closed eyelids. “Why am I sleeping in your chair and not in your fucking bed?”

A moment passes, maybe several, in drunken silence, except for the sound of a bus passing outside, a woman’s giggle down the hall, a door opening and slamming shut. You squint your eyes, struggling to make out his features in the delicate dark. He’s ... yes, he’s laughing at you.

“You’re such an ass,” he says with a somber smile. “You’re tanked, aren’t you?”

“Yes,” you whisper, dropping your head, ashamed. “I am.”

“Prick,” he says as he stands. The way his voice wraps around the word, it doesn’t sound like an insult, just a statement of fact. Your eyes fall shut and crack open again and again and again, hands on either side of your knees for balance. “I’m taking a shower,” he says.

He pats you on the back three times, sending you tumbling across the mattress, face into the pillow, on the agonizing edge of sleep.

And then, just blackness.

* * * * * * * * * *

When you wake, it is to the sound of _there you go, sir_ and _thank you_ , of the door opening and closing, to the sensation of fingers on your belt, of hands on your hips, lips on your cock. Your eyes finally open to the vibration in your chest of your own moaning.

Hayden smiles around your hardening flesh, swiping his tongue over, under, around its length. He swallows the whole of it behind a mischievous grin, then pulls back, stroking your slick erection with nimble fingers.

“I had some breakfast brought up. You want coffee?”

You shake your head _No_. You try to remember what it is you actually _do_ want. The kiss, the key, the whiskey, Hayden’s mouth ... All you can think of, that you _know_ you want, is to feel Hayden fucking you in time with the pounding inside your skull.

He burns you with his lust clouded gaze, says only “I can do that ...” and then straddles you, devouring your solid flesh again, both hands firmly planted on your hips. You fumble with the seven tiny black buttons on the front of your dress shirt, while he shrugs off his terry bathrobe, exposing an expanse of graceful skin. He frees you from the remnants of your formal trousers, discarding them on the floor by his jacket, shirt, pants, tie – all seeming so ridiculous now, considering the circumstances.

Suddenly, he stops, stares. You wonder, breathless, what he’s thinking as he regards you. Maybe _We shouldn’t do this, Ewan_ , or _What will this mean, Ewan?_ or even _Shit, I don’t have any condoms, Ewan, do you?_ In the silence he rakes his half lidded blue-green eyes over you, his fingers still pulsing over your erection.

“Turn over,” he says, in a voice that says he knows he won’t be questioned.

And you do, eagerly. He won’t be questioned.

He pulls you backwards, into him, by two strong hands on your hips. With his weeping cock resting against your thigh, you begin to feel nothing but the tremors of your desire for him, your need to be taken. Today, you exist only in those details – his hands on your hips, his tongue on the delicate skin of your ass, your fingers clenching the bedspread by the fistful, his fingers probing, stroking, opening, opening some more.

When you feel the fire of his cock entering you, two fingers painfully twisting your left nipple, you know you’re out of control already. Your voice is no longer your own, cries of _oh, fuck_ and _god, yes_ caressing each corner of the sweat-soaked room. He fills you with long, slow strokes, pulling out and sliding back in, tilting his hips and _oh, god, yes, yes ..._

Your bodies synchronize. You move faster, he moves faster. You cry for more, he wraps his entire body around yours and massages your desperate cock. With a strong grip on your erection, he teases it with skilled fingers until you come, loud and hard, your right cheek pressed into the mattress. You cry out for him to _come on, give it to me_ and he does, violently, forearm braced across your glistening back.

The room falls silent. Hayden begins to untangle his body from yours, falling to the side, staring at the ceiling. The right words for this moment allude you, so you say nothing. Instead, you feel the sting of all the places he touched you, owned you, all the places you secretly hope there will be bruises tomorrow.

With an expression you can’t place, he stares at you for a long moment, his chest rising and falling with breath. Then he rolls over, leans across the gap between you, and presses his lips to yours. The air falls from your lungs as you remember: yesterday, before all of this, the first time you kissed, and now, right now, the second.


End file.
